The Bottom Rung
by VulcanChicks
Summary: Wheatley makes his way back to Aperture to apologize to Chell, but encounters a collected but internally furious GLaDOS. He wants to go to the surface? Not on Her watch. At least, not before he's had his just desserts. Angry!WheatDOS with lots of kinks.
1. Familiar Quarters

Chapter 1: Familiar Quarters

Wheatley groaned as he came to. His vision was still blurry, a remnant of the long bout of unconsciousness, wherever that had come from. In any case, the view from this position left a lot to be desired, only affording him a look at the dulled once-white ceiling tiles.

"Wait." His mental processors roared to life, recalling the last events before the blackness set in. Ceiling tiles meant that he was in a building, as in a building on earth, and being on earth meant no longer being stranded in the cold, eternal vacuum of space.

The transfer, no, his plan… A jolt of excitement ran through him. _His plan had worked._

He tried to roll over to get a better look at his surroundings only to roll off the plateau on which he was resting. But before he could think to brace for the harsh and inevitable impact, something caught him. A pale fleshy stalk with some sort of handlike apparatus on the end was gripping the edge of a small table beside the platform from which he had slipped, though how it was suspending him in midair was completely beyond him, unless…

Cautiously, his eyes wandered along the unknown support, following it as his stomach tied itself into anxious knots until— He let out a shrill sound of surprise, and the hand released, sending him tumbling to the floor with a clumsy and uneven _whump_ that knocked his glasses loose. A strong sense of panic swarmed around him as he struggled to make sense of the situation.

"Not supposed to be in a bloody human body," he said, the words spilling from his mouth in a terrified gush. "That wasn't part of the plan. I-I should be in a new core on my management rail with everything peachy keen!" Pushing himself up to a sitting position, his eyes darted about the room, hauntingly bare, searching for a spare. If there was one thing humans were good at, it was doing things with their hands, like setting up core transfers.

The entirety of the room was styled in the same drab, light-gray nakedness as the ceiling, something that made this new human part of him uneasy. Or maybe that was just the chilly, recycled air. He shivered and instinctively pulled his knees to his chest, clinging to the small sensation of warmth it created with a wistful sigh. Clothed as his new form was, the protection the loose khaki slacks and wrinkled polo provided was, in his opinion, quite minimal, especially when considering the bareness of his feet. And there were still no cores in sight. At least he knew his basic instincts were more or less intact.

With unexpected ease—it only took him six tries—he pulled himself to his feet, leaning on the platform for support. Either it was incredibly tall or he was a good bit shorter than the average human male. He greatly hoped it was the former, although there was no concrete reason. Should he be forced to take residence inside a human, he felt that he deserved a taller one, something that could serve as a tribute to his own greatness and brilliance.

Bipedalism was the way to go for humans, he decided, his gaze drifting about the room. It afforded a much better view than his previous position on the ground, although it still paled in comparison to his management rail. It always gave him a spectacular as-the-crow-flies kind of view, safe and secure as he observed the humans' deep sleep, rolling about the facility whenever—and just about wherever—he pleased, and… He really needed to stop doting on that.

His eyes fell back to the platform. A simple raised slab of stainless steel, its only decorations of any sort were the straps bolted to it—approximately where the arms and legs would go, he noted, a haze of dread settling in his thoughts. He did his best to not dwell on the table's purpose or its past visitors and especially not on the identity of the few rust-colored splatters around where his head had been resting.

Hands never leaving the table, he turned his back to the ominous marks and, with a well-planned hop, sat dangling his legs over the edge.

"Alright, mate," he said to himself, running a hand through his unkempt hair. "Yes, there have been some bumps in the road, but at least those are recoverable, right? In fact, we can flip some of these twists around, make them into helpful things! Like, er, the human bit, for example. You wanted to find the lady in the jumpsuit and apologize and all that, and what better way to do it than as one of her own kind! Make a personal connection now that you're all smelly and," he swallowed, uncertainly examining the thinness of his limbs. "Vulnerable…"

After a few moments, he reeled his mind back in. "So that's the plan then. Find the quiet lady and ask for forgiveness. Beg even, if you have to! Tell her how sorry you are for being so monstrous and bossy. Apologize for the testing, too. For all those wondrous tests she solved for you…" His words faded out, replaced by a warm and delightful sensation, a memory all too fresh and familiar. The wonderful heat swept over his body, trickling deliciously down his chest and stomach, leaving most of it to pool between his legs. He didn't feel guilty enough to not enjoy it, and a small airy sound escaped his lips.

His pants felt a little tighter, and the discomfort startled him, yanking him back into the present and heightening his panic once more. Whatever was going on was unusual and unexpected, and therefore dangerous. He retained very little knowledge from the core database, making every reaction that was unique to the human body little more than a potential time bomb. He needed an expert and fast.

"And then she'll take ol' Wheatley in and help him find a nice core to transfer to. Or at least help him fix this defective body before it explodes or something awful like that." He didn't say the words as much as motor through them. Scrambling to his feet and using the wall for balance, he sidled over to the doorway and out into the hall, more anxious than ever to find his former test subject.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading this far, but be warned! The next chapter caters to a fair amount of kinks, some of which may be found to be on the squicky side of things!


	2. Filing In

Chapter 2: Filing In

He had almost made it down the entirety of the hall, palming his way across a door when it opened unexpectedly. Helpless without the support, Wheatley fell into the room. Hurrying to his hands and knees, he moved for the wall, but the lights went out, leaving the darkness to claim victory over his vision. Not knowing what to do, he remained motionless, blind and distressingly defenseless.

An unamused voice echoed through the all-encompassing shroud. Blunt and cold, it was the one sound he had hoped never to hear again. "Did you really think I hadn't noticed your return?"

Wheatley's heart raced and lodged itself in his throat, building on his mounting nausea and his aches from the fall. "I wasn't placing bets on it," he finally managed to squeak, his voice cracking. "But I was rather hoping."

"That's such a shame. Here." The panels beneath him creaked and separated from the rest of the floor, raising the terrified man into the air. "Why don't we talk face-to-face?" The ceiling parted, and light flooded down onto him as he was drawn up to Her chamber.

"There," GLaDOS crooned, Her chassis swaying as his eyes adjusted to the new brightness. "Now I can see your sniveling cowardice in person instead of simply through a security reel. The view is simply marvelous."

The platform She held him on angled unexpectedly, dropping him to the floor in an ungraceful heap. Whimpering, he pulled himself into a protective ball, spewing an incoherent stream of pleas for mercy.

"What a shameful spectacle. Do you honestly think the lunatic is just going to take you back? Your pathetic state isn't going to help your case, you know." The harsh judgmental glow of Her optic was unbearable. "And neither are your fond memories of testing with her."

Before he could open his mouth to protest, a claw dropped from the ceiling, grabbing him by the waist and pinning him roughly to the wall, a loose wire following soon after, a wicked constrictor coiling maliciously around his neck. The former AI clawed at it, gurgling and frantically attempting to loosen it. "P-plea—" he croaked. "Let. G-g-go!"

Her grip only intensified, engulfing his lungs in a searing flood of desperation. He felt his vision blur as his breaths were restricted to wheezy gasps. It was all over, he told himself. After making it so far, this was how it was all to end. Suddenly, the pressure around his neck disappeared, causing his body to flop limply onto the claw. Temporarily forgetting Her, he greedily sucked down the stale, life-giving air, one hand rubbing at the sore—and undoubtedly bright red—mark on his throat.

"She would never take you back," GLaDOS continued. "Not after the way you've treated her. Your itch is still there, just as it was before your circuits ever interfaced with my chassis." The claw retracted, and the cable took hold of his wrists, suspending him in midair by his thin arms, forcing a yelp of distress from his aching throat. "You're nothing more than a danger and a handicap to her." Her tone softened, another wire emerging from the wall. "It would be so easy to simply kill you. I've put an excessive amount of thought into the perfect way to make your life a living hell, but you can't begin to fathom how difficult that is. There are so many options, especially now that you're so flimsy."

The way She said that last part made him very uneasy. "Why go through all that effort just for me?" he argued shakily. "Maybe you could just, you know, er, let me go? You can focus on your testing, and I could be on my merry way, out of your hair forever. Metaphorically speaking, of course, since you don't exactly have hair."

"Let you go? Just like that?" The free cord stiffened ominously before lashing out at him, piercing the loose thigh of his pants as he squirmed out of the way.

"Bloody hell, what was _that_ for? Those trousers were barely doing their job without another hole!"

"Really now?"

The wire loosened, snaking in through the opening it had created, weaving its way through the rest of his garments, effortlessly stretching and tearing the seams. Wheatley twisted and squirmed as the cold steel rubbed against his skin, his body reacting in mixed waves. Never would he have described it as enjoyable, but beneath the overlying unpleasantness was a tiny spring of warmth that detracted from the aparatus' chill. The shredded cloth fell to the floor, leaving him colder and more exposed than he had believed possible.

"You clearly have no sense of self-restraint," She commented acridly, running the wire's tip down his torso and leaving a hot tingling sensation in its wake, which built up at the end of the wire's trail and manifested itself as a growing protrusion on his groin. "And no sense of decency for that matter either."

Wheatley groaned softly, a shudder and a rush of heat in his cheeks accompanying the electrifying feeling of GLaDOS' still-cool instrument brushing against it. A voice in the back of his mind informed him that his bare state was disgraceful, and his reaction to the touch was only more so. The organ's function escaped him at the moment, but he truthfully couldn't care less. In that moment, all else faded to the background, unimportant in comparison.

The AI's disgusted tone cut through his blissful cloud. "You sick little idiot."

"It's hardly my fault," he objected, still twisting and turning in Her grasp. "You were the one prodding about down there…" Squeezing his legs together in an attempt to relieve the growing pressure, he helplessly fought to loosen the first cord's hold on his wrists. A hand could easily solve his problem, though he was unaware of the origin of this knowledge.

GLaDOS squeezed harder. "Oh, I wouldn't bother," She hummed. "You're not the boss anymore. You're powerless against me, completely under my control. It's my facility." An excited whirr revved within Her chassis. "It's time you were put in your place. At the bottom."

The free wire lashed out, coiling around his upper thigh and pulling it away from the rest of his body. "Nononono," he yelped. "I do _not_ like where this is going!" An involuntary shudder ran down his spine as it curled up the limb, pressing into his flesh as the tip entered him.

Drawing himself up with a sharp inward hiss, he found himself helpless to resist Her overwhelming strength and furthermore, he realized with a throaty moan that tore at his dry vocal tract, a sick and horrible part of himself was, as much as he hated to admit, _enjoying_ it. It was unfair, he complained internally, so terribly, _terribly_ unfair. He succumbed, biting his lip as his body moved hesitantly with the wire of its own accord.

The disdain in Her voice was unmistakable. "This is a new low, even for you. What a faulty piece of garbage you were stuck with. I almost feel bad for you," She remarked, followed by hollow, synthetic laughter. "I'm kidding, of course." A third cord lashed against his unprotected flank.

"Aurgh—!" A short cry fell from Wheatley's lips, the poignant sting sinking in, adding to his distorted sensory load. He made no further attempts to resist, too firmly caught in a mental state somewhere between thorough arousal and anguish. It wasn't clear which way he ought to be leaning, and the distinction between the two had all but faded. He deserved this treatment, an imaginary but nonetheless authoritative voice insisted. After all he'd done, every cruel and unnecessary thing he had put that poor jumpsuited woman through, the pain and discomfort was finally being directed to the correct recipient, and of that, he ought to be at the very least accepting, if not thankful. Bloody human conscience. It didn't help that his total subordination prevented him from shaking the sudden powerful guilt. As with before when he was Lord of Aperture, his short-lived freedom and independence in the bland room was the only thing that had allowed him to escape its whirlpool grasp.

Another blow was dealt, this one landing on the sensitive flesh of his inner thigh, dangerously close to the part of him that possessed remarkable sensitivity, a part he decidedly did _not_ want Her to strike. At the hasty bidding of the mental guide, he took it with little more than a flinch and a whimper.

"Aren't you going to say something stupid, something irrational?" She stung the small of his back. "Push the blame to someone else and cry like a sniveling child, begging me to free you? _Moron?_"

The final word cut him deeply, forcing free a surge of desire to fight back, but he struggled, resisting the tantalizing opportunity, sinking his teeth into his tongue until the nauseating taste of heavy iron trickled over it. He continued his feat of relative silence, wrists, arms, rump, tongue, and torso all horribly sore.

"Oh, don't you worry," assured GLaDOS, pulling the first wire from his backside. Under normal circumstances, his silence would've delighted Her, but here it was an act of defiance, a sin against the merciless God of Science, something which would not be tolerated. "Making you talk will be easy," She continued, annoyance seeping into Her ever-patient croon. "I just need to present the correct stimuli."

Wheatley cringed as the cable reentered him, thrusting in a slow but forceful rhythm whose pace was gradually increasing, and a pent-up sob of desire broke loose as the remaining cord left a light, tickling trail from the nape of his neck down the sparse line of hair on his chest and abdomen to the needily-twitching shaft of his cock. Gaze firmly fixated on the hovering cable, a hoarse plea arose in his throat.

"Louder, idiot," the AI commanded.

Wheatley squeezed his eyes shut once more. It was becoming too much of a strain to fight, the once-pleasure of the organ having curdled into downright pain. It ached in an unbearably foreign way, and like a slab of ice put up against a grievous burn, it howled for both attention and relief. What's more, his mind's eye taunted him with the imagery of achieving it, detailed to the point where he could almost feel the wire ghosting over his member.

His voice came out in a low whine. "Please, just—" He swallowed hard. "Just finish the job. You're good at stuff like that, putting endings onto things. Y'know, you could even just let one of my wrists go, and I could do it for you! No worry, no effort on your—"

"No," She interrupted. "We'll follow my rules."

The restraints on his upper limbs squeezed a little as a reminder of who was in charge here in the chassis room of Aperture Laboratories. Wheatley trembled in anticipation as Her cord wrapped around his arousal, teasing it with painfully-slow strokes, eliciting a weak moan from Her captive, who bucked into Her grasp, anxious for release.

"This is the most vile display I've ever had the misfortune of witnessing," commented GLaDOS matter-of-factly as She applied a more forceful stroke, much to his delight. "I hope you comprehend exactly how wrong this is. On your part, of course."

But he was too focused on the inevitable finish to pay Her much mind. At this point, he could care less if She were recording his subordination, so long as he earned his reward. He pushed harder into the coil.

Her golden optic gleaming in what was surely the equivalent of a triumphant smirk, GLaDOS complied to his animalistic desires, sending him flying over the edge with a particularly noisy groan of pleasure as his thin load spilled onto the wire.

A visible shudder of revulsion ran through the chassis, Her optic narrowing. "Even I can be wrong sometimes," She admitted. "_That_ was beyond foul." A slight pout crept into Her voice. "And you've soiled a perfectly good cable."

Freeing all but his wrists, She allowed him to drop unceremoniously to the floor to land among his shredded clothing. The dirtied cord was raised to his mouth.

"Clean up your mess."

Eyes still glazed over from the sensation of release, he cocked his head slowly. "Wha?" His nose wrinkled as he realized what She wanted. "No way, lady," he asserted between heavy breaths, shaking his head. "That stuff just came out of me, and I have no intention o—"

He was cut off by the wire being shoved into his mouth, making him gag a little at the force and the unexpected briny flavor.

"I don't think you quite understood, moron. Allow me to repeat myself: clean up your mess."

Eyes watering, he complied, bobbing his head slightly as he licked it all off, leaving a sticky thread of saliva which ran from the wire to his lips as he pulled away, finishing the job. He swallowed thickly, cheeks burning in shame as he wiped his mouth on the back of his arm.

"Now get out."

The claw from the beginning of the encounter once again grabbed him about the middle, this time tossing him like a ragdoll into the lift that had risen from the ground, dashing his head against the curved capsule walls and knocking his glasses to the cold floor. The doors shut promptly behind him, and his tiny prison rose, leaving the chassis room behind with nauseating swiftness.

"I hope the birds get you."

A/N: Thanks again for reading! This is my personal headcanon for post-Aperture Wheatley. I wrote this in a way that I can use it as a starting point for other headcanon writings.


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